I

The arctic wind howled fiercely outside the cave’s jagged mouth. Shards of razor-sharp whirled just out of reach, tearing across the great plains of the Rift.

“The storm’s getting worse, kitten,” Mother studiously observed. Her arms were crossed beneath the mammoth mounds of her breasts, supporting the weighty, naked flesh. At least, as naked as a milodan ever got, covered in a thick layer of soft silver fur as she was. The only actual flesh that Ziresh could see were the pert mounds of Mother’s bone-pierced teats and the coal-black lips between her legs. Black, where they were not still smeared with the glistening white seed of her most recent mating.

The idea of cleaning perfectly good cum off of her body was as alien to Mother as was the gang of furless off-worlders that had wandered into her domain. Now they lay in a pile of quivering exhaustion, bodies draped over each other beneath the one fur blanket Ziresh had brought with her. Mother’s body was a temple to fertility, an altar on which — and within which — seed was to be spilled with worshipful ecstacy. Mating with half a dozen scrawny aliens was an effortless act of devotion for her; letting their mixed seed stew inside her womb left her with a contented smile as she stared into the rage of the storm outside.

“I’m used to storms, Mother,” Ziresh sighed, rifling through one of the not-quite-leather packs the aliens had brought. Under several of the strange glow-slates and mysterious metal cubes inside, she found a dark red length of thick cloth. Sne sniffed at it, wiggling her pink nose as the faint scent of berries wafted off it.

“I know, kitten,” Mother said, placing a paw on the pale, bare skin of her daughter’s flesh. “But you don’t-“

Ziresh growled softly and batted her mother’s hand away. “I have plenty of protection! So what if half of my body is furless, these aliens brought plenty of clothes.”

As if to demonstrate the point, Ziresh wrapped the red scarf around the pale mountains of her own breasts. They were smaller than mother’s, of course, but still more than plump enough to make tying off the garment difficult. She shuddered as her dark nipples rubbed against the wooly material of the scarf, sending an unbidden shock of pleasure through her chest.

III

The tittering harlots scampered out on his command, leaving Cáthe and Arxis alone in the room. The towering dragon-man wrapped his guardsman’s cloak over his shoulders, but otherwise left himself bare. His cum-soaked manhood slowly retracted into a vertical slit between his legs, leaving him somewhat modest; more than could be said for Cáthe, at any rate. His semen and her own orgasmic juices clung hotly to her bare, pale flesh; she didn’t dare put her clothes back on lest she soil them, and so Cáthe lounged on Arxis’ bed in nothing but her hood and cloak, sipping at her cup of wine.

“It’s all this this satchel, everything you’ll need,” Arxis growled, inclining his head towards a leather bag hanging from the coat pin on the door. “Maps of the palace catacombs. The key to the sewer grates… guard patrols relevant to you. Nothing near the queen’s chambers, you understand.”

Cáthe gave him a disarming smile. “Of course. I’m just a thief, not an assassin.”

As much as it would give her great pleasure to see the Red Queen dethroned, Cáthe didn’t feel like throwing her life away for it. She’d tried that once, her and her entire people; that’s how the great red dragon got herself on the throne of the Shattered Isles instead of the pure elven maiden that ought to be ruling it.

No, she was just here for a one little thing from the dragon’s vaults… and to fill her pockets while she worked.

Arxis grunted. “So you say. Your cunt and coin’s enough to convince me. I assume you have your own tools of trade?”

“Ropes, picks, hooks, the works,” she assured him. “As long as you’re map is accurate, getting in and out unseen should be a breeze.”

“In and out of a dragon’s vault? Well, you have balls for a human.”

Human, right. Cáthe’s elven ears twitched under her hood. “Says the man with no balls.”

Arxis huffed. “They’re internal. Come back after your heist and I’ll fuck you proper… show you I’m as potent as any of your men.”

“I’ll pass,” Cáthe laughed, slipping out of the bed and taking the satchel. “But thanks, Arxis. You’re not bad for a palace guard… I mean, you’re bad at being one now, but you’re a-“

You can find anything and everything for sale in the lower wharfs of Dragon’s Gate. Hundreds of longships from around the northern sea came to the city to trade. It was no surprise that the biggest city in the world would be a nyx’s call to every gold-hungry merchant captain on the waves, but a different kind of market also grew in the furthest shadows of the Red Queen’s towering palace. A hive of tight-packed shops and watering holes where common sailors, drunks, whores, and thieves gathered to ply their own brand of trade.

Cáthe had been one and all of them during her long life, but tonight she counted herself among that last group: a thief on the prowl. Though the most exotic flesh, treasure, and narcotics switched hands in the back alleys and smokey taverns of the low wharf, her quarry was of a less tangible sort. For once her belt was heavy with the weight of her pouch of coins, but that just made her a target for the rest of her kin. Cáthe kept a hand firmly on her belt, flinching towards her dagger each time a wobbling drunk or laughing harlot pushed past her in the crowd.

Her contact was supposed meet her at the Golden Cock tavern. It was easy to find, she’d been told: just follow the smell of overdone perfume and sweaty sex up from the wharf. He hadn’t been lying, at least in that regard. True to the name, a great big gold-painted metal rooster was bolted over the door. Over that stood a woman on a balcony, bent over the railings with a pair of big, rosy breasts bare and swinging as a swarthy northman took her from behind. Hers were hardly the only moans coming from inside, just the loudest.

“Classy place,” Cáthe grunted, pulling up her cloak’s hood as she passed under the copulating couple. “Good advertisement though.”

This story chains off the previous one, Mind-Altered Masturbation! You don’t need to read it if you don’t want to. Suffice to say, my self-insert of a minotaur gets a little bit mental reprogrammed to lust after a specific dragon-girl! The rest is history!

Fen snagged the gravcuffs in one hand and thrusted. The force alone was sufficient to lift Linera off the ground and produce the distinct outline of his bulging, over-swollen cock in her once taut midsection. Lust and anger swirled together as he pounded away at her sopping, draconic cunt, his every stroke producing gushes of mixed pre and pussy-juice.

She had dared to fuck with his head! Her devilishly clever code seized control of his cybernetics, turned his psionic powers around on him, and filled his mind with nothing but desire and affection for the curvaceous dragon-girl. This was all her fault! She’s the one that made his cock ache incessantly at the thought of her pussy! She’s the one who’s lingering programming had compelled him to track her down across entire star systems. Three days attempting to untangle his brain wasn’t enough to shake the desire to sink hilt-deep in dragon-pussy from his psyche, but it was enough long for him to seize control of it and make it his own.

Here’s a little story I put together to go with a commission I got (and also set up another story to go with another piece of art of my dude I’ve got waiting in the hopper). It’s mostly focused on male minotaur-noxo getting his cyberware hacked to mess with his head and make a fap session even lewder. If that’s not your jam, don’t click to read more!

Fenoxo sat down on the couch and eyeballed the datachit. On the surface, it looked like any other universal data-store: matte black with a few gleaming electrodes where it could interface with nearly any machine. The bull-man knew the contents inside to be more insidious. He had picked it up from a trusted contact who promised the high-definition memory-store would provide an unforgettable experience: supposedly some next level memory-data that made getting gang-banged by a batch of New Texan bimbos look like a walk in the park.

He had forgotten about it for a few weeks, but now that Derri and Lyko were sound asleep in bed, he decided he might as well give it a try. Fen was still horny.

Reaching up, the shaggy-furred bull-man pressed at the hidden port on the back of his head where his cybernetic ‘horns’ plugged in. He long ago made peace with their presence. Just because he had no say in having them bolted on didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the eventual benefits. Big glowing horns were a conversation starter, for one, and psionic amplification was nothing to sneeze at. Since having that bundle of circuitry laced into his brain, he had gained abilities unmodified terrans could only dream of – one of which was the ability to load properly recorded sensory data to relive on a whim.

This one is a piece I did to go with a recent commission I got. Unfortunately, I totally forget the image had the squirrel-girl with a horse-cock… I might edit in a few paragraphs with that later. Feel free to slam any typos or grammatical issues in my face – I’m still working on editing this one up.

Lyko looked at her friends, out on the dance floor, and rolled her eyes, swivelling back to regard her drink – a non-alcoholic cherry bubbler – with a tiny frown. All her life, she had thought herself perfect: from her nicely symmetrical face to her silky-smooth skin to her body’s naturally high metabolism to her class-topping grades; everything added up to indicate that she was destined for greatness, or at the very least, success in her every endeavor. And for a while, that had been true – until her 21st birthday.

The pretty squirrel-girl found out the hard way that she had one long-hidden genetic flaw: an inability to properly process alcohol. A few sips gave her a headache. A glass would earn a splitting migraine. Indulging in a night of drunken merrymaking was impossible for Lyko. She couldn’t take the edge off with the legal intoxicant if she wanted to. There were other options of course: smoking phoscurelle, narcotic patches, or harder stuff, but they were addictive or known to carry certain… negative side effects.

Lyko snorted in disdain. She wasn’t rich enough to get a custom gene-mod, and her particular mutation was too uncommon for a major biotech corp like Xenogen to bother producing a consumer-grade product. She was stuck here, sitting on her bar-stool, sipping at a nothing-drink and watching her three best friends shaking their asses at some handsome-looking college boys on the dance floor: designated pilot for life.

“Hey, are you okay?” The voice was rich, deep, and most surprisingly, sober-sounding.

A while back I had the idea for a proper OC/Fursona/Whateverthefuck who was a psychic minotaur whose horn color reflected whatever powers he was using. The other night I came up with a proper listing of his various psychic powers and started writing a little story to go along with it. 3,500 words later, I have this little piece of hotness to show for it. Now if I can just find me an artist to do art of this character! Anyhow, I hope somebody gets as much enjoyment out of reading it as I did writing it.

Feren moved cautiously from market stall to market stall, continuously adjusting his cloak to keep the hot desert sun off his skin and the gentle curves of his face. He looked for loose pouches and purses, small trinkets and goods no one would see him take, never staying in one place for long. It would have been another day for the nomadic harpy, but something felt off today, a familiar figure showing up one-too-many times in the vast crowd of the Sa’sesh marketplace.

Cities like Sa’sesh were easy pickings for thieves like Feren: big communities hardly regulated who came or went, and with the war going on, there weren’t many guards to keep watch over the markets or wealthy homes. Sure, he may not have blended in well with the jackal-like suubi that inhabited Sa’sesh, but his svelte frame and wings would always make for easy getaways.

The feather-armed boy had planned on leaving the market soon, and hoped to shake that all-too-familiar feeling of being followed when he left, only to be interrupted by a pull of his cloak.

“Hey!” was the only word Feren could muster as his own purse was torn from his pockets. He quickly twisted around, only to see a suubi girl with her claws around the small burlap sack.

Savin here! Wrote this a few days ago on a whim, and ended up enjoying myself quite a bit. Hope you do too! Art is by the awesome Arbuz for my D&D game. Not quite the amazon featured here, but close enough.

The blow came out of nowhere, leaving Nevan reeling with the force of impact. He staggered back, foot catching on one of the arm-thick roots criss-crossing across the forest floor, and fell with a scream. Before he could hit the dirt, though, something yanked hard on the front of his hunting jacket, pulling him back from the brink.

The world reeled for a moment before he could catch his bearing, flailing his arms to the side and scrabbling his feet in the loamy soil.

“You scream like a whelp,” a rough woman’s voice laughed, making Nevan snap his head to the side to see first a hand firmly grasping his jacket, and trace it up to a sun-kissed arm rippling with toned muscle. The arm’s owner towered over him by more than two heads’ height, enough to position a pair of heavy breasts in front of his face, just barely contained by a wrap of leather and chain that seemed to strain with every one of the woman’s deep, even breaths. Her face was half-hidden from view by the shadows of the woods and the mane of flame-red hair that fell down around her shoulders in wild, untamed curls; but he could see her smiling, a smug grin that brought images of feral wolves to his mind, closing in on their prey.

“Best be careful, kitten,” she said, voice low like a growl. “Watch your step in these woods.”

Here’s a short little scene I wrote after a particularly unexpected moment in the ongoing Corruption of Champions D&D game Adjatha’s been running, between a character run by myself and Fenoxo. Poor Gnoll Princess just can’t catch a break!
Tags: D&D, Fantasy, F/M, Lust, Minotaurs, Cowgirls, Milk/Lactation, Hyper, TF

“I want you to help me fulfil a fantasy of mine.”

Hyra had known the svelte, almost effete mini-minotaur in front of her for maybe a month. They’d adventured together, braved the corrupted wastes of Mareth, and found a few intimate moments together too. When they’d returned to the Bizarre Bazaar, Hyra had expected what any good gnollish warrior would after a victorious campaign: good drink, rowdy song, and the company of a submissive little fuck-slut of a male to while away the nights.

Instead, she’d seen her party’s minitaur, Kell, flaunting his wares in the parlour of the Bazaar’s high-class bordello. She only saw him for a moment before a rich-looking woman led him off for the night, but that was enough to put an idea in her mind. An idea that had her running around the Bazaar for the better part of an hour, searching out what she needed to make a reality of the fantasies that had been dominating her mind more and more since she first took up with Kell and his company…

It had started with Urta. That damned she-fox had turned the tables when the proud gnoll princess had jumped her on the plains, and force-fed her a vial of Succubus Milk Hyra had been saving for a special femboy back at camp. Her tits had grown as large as melons in the blink of an eye: long enough for Urta to whip out a massive cock from under her uniform and take advantage of the burgeoning new flesh. Hyra had lost her pride, her fur, and her face to the vixen’s punishment. Now she looked like little more than any other dog-girl in the streets, with a smooth human face and a whorish bust that strained her clothes… and they’d become so sensitive that just feeling her black nipples rubbing against the fabric of her clothing was an eternal agony, always keeping her on the unbearable edge of climax.

Then came the traps. Her first day in Kell’s company, she’d been on the run from her gnollish heritage and desperate for a way to make ends meet without the luxury and service of her people. For once, she was outside of her queenly mother’s watchful eye. Hearing the call for mercenaries, she’d joined up without a second thought. But their first foray out had been riddled with traps from a bygone age that changed their bodies the deeper they went into the dungeon. Now, Hyra could barely recognize herself in the mirror: her tits had grown again, now bovine-like H-cups constantly swelling with an unnatural bounty of sweet milk. The throbbing black clit between her legs, the hallmark of a gnoll alpha female, was gone. In its place, a huge and constantly-hard canid cock with a knot as big around as her fist. There was barely anything left of the shapely gnoll princess that had set out for an afternoon’s hunt. In her place was something that, in Hyra’s eyes, looked more like a vagabond cow come down from the mountains.

She should have hated it. Should have rebelled against what her body was becoming against her will.